The Almighty Maker Him Ordain
by Noctivagant Ghost
Summary: Tyrian's salvation came, not in the form of repentance, but of a woman garbed in black and heralded by monsters. (Canon-compliant as of V7E7.)


**The Almighty Maker Him Ordain**

After three days, the restraints were starting to chafe.

Tyrian gave the bindings on his arm another experimental tug. Although he'd long since given up on the possibility of loosening them, it did little to dissuade him from testing for structural weakness. A pull here. A tweak there. His captors had been nothing if not thorough in securing him within the confines of his cell, to an almost paranoid degree, really.

The stasis-cuffs and shackles for his tail, certainly, he could understand those. The muzzle was a bit much.

There was a sharp sting in Tyrian's shoulder where the leather strap dug into a half-healed wound. He let out a hiss through his teeth, eyelids fluttering shut as he paused to revel in the pain. He welcomed the sensation, the way it lit up his nerves and made them _sing_. It was a shallow substitute for the exhilaration of the chase, the thrill of blood slick beneath his fingertips, the intoxication of the screams. Little more than a distraction, to be sure, but a very badly needed one. Time in the intervals between guard rotations left him desperately in need of an outlet. Like an addict in the vise of withdrawal, the manic energy surged beneath his skin, on the verge of overflowing without the necessary stimulation to siphon it.

It didn't help that the sentries had quickly been conditioned by his attempts to cajole them into running into his room. There were only so many times Tyrian could claim his stitches had come undone, or that he needed to use the bathroom, before the response became Pavlovian and they wised up.

His treatment was simply appalling. After all the effort put into capturing him, one would think they'd_ at least _pay him more attention. He was a Very Important Prisoner, and he'd be damned if he didn't remind them of it.

"Surely you haven't forgotten about me?" Tyrian glanced at the camera suspended in the corner of his cell. "Or are you still busy cleaning up that little mess we made?" His fit of laughter ended in an abrupt cough. There was an unmistakable coppery tang across his tongue. "I can't remember the last time that many airships crashed. I hope Atlas wasn't too_ upset_ over those. Though really, they have no right to be. If they were smart, they would have budgeted for collateral damage."

If they were smart, they would have stuck a knife between his ribs by now.

"_Ske sha skele,_" he said. "Don't you think this is getting ridiculous?" He let out a dramatic huff. "I've received better customer service in Vacuose brothels. All those soldiers in uniform, and you can't spare one to—"

The electronic lock on the containment cell door pinged, before it slid open along its track. The first newcomer was a stranger to him, another hackneyed guard whose only distinguishing feature was the way his arms shook as he stepped into his room. His second visitor, however—

Tyrian grinned, wide and bright and vicious. Even with the mask concealing part of his face, the expression reached his eyes. It was enough to make the guard falter in his step.

Oh, yes. His prayers had indeed been answered.

"Room service!" Tyrian exclaimed. Locks of matted hair cascaded down the side of his face as he lifted his head. "I was beginning to wonder when you'd come. It's quite rude to leave a guest unattended for so long."

Pickerel folded his arms over his chest. "I thought you would've had the meal schedule memorized by now."

"And where's the fun in that?" he asked. "Predictability makes everything so dull. Routine is more of a prison than any dungeon you could throw me in. The monotony of repetition, the relentless march of time, shackling yourself to an existence sterilized of any meaning." Tyrian let out a long, shuddering breath. "There are ways to kill a person without knives and daggers."

"And you'd know a thing or two about that, I'm sure," the guard said. Pickerel's attention briefly flitted to his companion, before he redirected it back to Tyrian. The heavy weight of his stare made him positively _itch_.

"I'm glad to see you're putting all this time to good use." The Huntsman's voice was dry as Dust.

Tyrian inclined his head. "And what else would I be doing?"

"Feeling remorse for the dozens of lives you've taken?"

The guard jumped at the sudden, vibrant cackle that was amplified by the acoustics of the room. It took Tyrian a moment to compose himself. "Ask a fire not to burn you, or a storm to soak you to the bone." He sneered. "See how far you get."

"Is that what you are?" Pickerel asked. "A force of nature that indiscriminately kills whatever crosses your path?"

"What I _am_ right now is _starving_," Tyrian said. The guard made the effort to not flinch as he pointedly glanced his way. "As scintillating as this conversation is, we're stalling. Come now, no need to be shy. I don't bite."

"I should remind you—" Pickerel's voice sharpened. For all he should have been listening to his captor, Tyrian found himself drinking in the unease he incited in the approaching guard. Hands reached for his face, skating across his cheeks and working at the fastenings on the mask. "—that this is a privilege, not a right, that can be revoked at any time if you choose to act out or refuse to cooperate. We're obligated to keep you fed. The manner in which we do so, however, is at our discretion."

Tyrian jerked back his head in a startled laugh, pulling his face out of reach. The guard scowled. "Now that you mention it, I've never had a feeding tube before."

"First time for everything."

"I'll keep that in mind." With the final strap unbuckled, the mask slid from his face. It didn't matter that the air was stagnant, that perspiration had begun to bead above his lips. A sigh eased its way from him as Tyrian rolled the muscles in his neck, and basked in the cool impression upon his skin. "_Much_ better."

The guard didn't recoil, but it was a near thing as Tyrian leaned into his space. The chains anchoring his limbs to the wall rattled with the strain. "I believe you have something for me?" he asked. An undercurrent of menace laced his voice.

Whatever the guard wanted to say he bit back, with a delightful look on his face that wavered somewhere between dislike and revulsion. Instead, he dug through the contents of the bandolier pouch slung across his chest, and removed a nondescript plastic bottle.

Tyrian frowned. "I do hope they took my nut allergy and lactose intolerance into account." The fretting was ruined somewhat by the giggle he failed to stifle.

The guard scoffed. "I'm sure they did. Head back, asshole."

It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever had (carrion scraped off of tarmac still held that dubious honor) though the chalky texture and diluted taste left a lot to be desired. Still, presentation mattered, and Tyrian had an audience he didn't intend to disappoint. He made a show of tipping back his head, Adam's apple bobbing as he drank. Each exaggerated swallow was visibly savored. For a moment he let his features soften, his eyes close, a noise of contentment forming at the back of his throat.

"—okay, it's empty, you can _stop_."

And just like that, the bottle was yanked from his mouth.

The pair watched with varying degrees of disgust as Tyrian slowly licked his lips. "Wasn't that refreshing?" he crooned.

The guard muttered something under his breath as he hastily reattached the mask, all while Pickerel watched. In the tense silence Tyrian found his thoughts gravitating toward his adversary. The Huntsman was a statue, his bearings carved from finely-tuned instincts and discipline rather than the traditional medium of stone or clay. It had occurred to Tyrian—in the liminal space his mind occupied, where isolation had blurred any conception of time—there was a reason why Pickerel had been contracted to assist in his capture. Over a decade of snuffing out lives, ensorcelled by the embers as he watched their fires fade. All of it, at last, come to an end.

How it _gnawed_ at his thoughts.

"All right." The guard stepped back. "We're done here. C'mon."

Pickerel moved to follow.

"Leaving so soon?" Tyrian called after them. "Stay a while, Pickerel. Let's have a little chat."

The guard froze. Nervously, he glanced at his escort.

Pickerel hesitated for all of a second. "Go. I'll be fine."

Not needing to be told twice, the guard fled from the room without so much as a goodbye.

Pickerel waited until the door lock clicked into place. The Huntsman took up position by the wall across from him, making himself comfortable as he leaned against its surface. "What do you want?"

"The hospitality here is _amazing_. Really," Tyrian chided, "I had hoped we could have a civil conversation. After all, this might be our last chance to do so."

"You're a prisoner. You're hardly in a position to be making demands."

"But I'm not making demands." Tyrian leered. "I'm asking nicely."

"Nicely." Pickerel said the word _nicely_ the same way he might have said _mandatory employee seminar_.

It was refreshing to be regarded with something other than fear or hate, even if that something was incredulity. The other man didn't easily submit, unlike the revolving door of guards that had been paraded in and out of his cell the last few days.

Good.

Tyrian shook his head, in a futile attempt to dislodge a strand of hair in front of his eyes. Those were starting to get irksome. "Well, yes," he answered, rather conversationally. "And I had thought you might humor me."

If Pickerel arched his brow any higher it would be in danger of permanently disappearing into his hairline. "And why," he asked, "would I do that?"

The muzzle obscured his grin, though Tyrian doubted the gesture was lost on his companion, by the way he shifted his weight between his legs. "Curiosity," he breathed. "Before Mistral saw fit to ask for your help, I was little more than a ghost, creating more ghosts wherever I went. How many months did you waste chasing dead ends and following rumors before the combined might of two kingdoms finally brought me to heel?" His lip curled. "The ghost has been made corporeal, though for how long, I can't say. Tell me, Huntsman—when do you think you'll get this chance again?"

Already, Tyrian could see the impact his little speech had on Pickerel. He'd taken the bait, long before he'd made up his mind. His jaws parted, once, twice, before he crossed his arms and kicked his heel into the wall. "All right." Guarded, but not hostile. "Ask your question."

"Thank you. I do so appreciate the company." Tyrian let the words hang in the air between them, condensed like poisonous fog. "Any idea when they'll be moving me?"

There was a beat of silence as Pickerel regarded him through half-narrowed eyes, clearly debating how confidential the intel was, and what the consequences of sharing it would be. "Two days, give or take," he admitted. "We're waiting for a reply from the admiral at Fort Nubuck, confirming that they sent the additional troops and supplies we asked for."

Tyrian blinked slowly, head tipped off to the side. "Nubuck. Nubuck. Where have I heard that name before?" The chains softly clinked in time with the tap of his foot. "Ah, yes. _Argus_. Charming little port city up north. I hear their seafood is to die for."

"I wouldn't know."

"It's odd that Mistral would ask an Atlas military base for more resources if their intention was to simply relocate me somewhere local," Tyrian continued. "Which means that they're not. Remind me again, where _exactly_ am I being transported?"

Predictably, Pickerel said nothing.

"Atlas never does things in half-measures, so I can't imagine they'd be content with merely locking me in a dingy cell and throwing away the key. No, no. It would be an insult to both of us if they did." A thoughtful quiet descended upon them. Eventually, he let out a knowing, self-deprecating chuckle. "Íssvangar. Good choice."

"The most well-funded maximum-security prison on Remnant." It was subtle. Had Tyrian been a lesser creature, he might have missed the way Pickerel straightened to better stare down his prisoner. "Equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry and over a hundred guards, each handpicked from Atlas' military, all with unlocked Semblances. The ADX security hardware includes infrared and pneumatographic cameras, motion detectors, and reinforced blast-resistant doors capable of withstanding 4.1 gigajoules from a Dust explosion."

"Someone did their homework," Tyrian remarked. "Was that rehearsed, by any chance?"

Pickerel ignored him. "Even if someone hypothetically made it past all of that, it's in the middle of an icefield, miles away from any settlement. You'd succumb to hypothermia before you reached civilization."

"All of that just for me? I'm flattered," he purred. "I always did enjoy a challenge."

The Huntsman's eyes turned flinty under the fluorescent light. "You're not escaping, so don't get any ideas. Then again, I suppose it doesn't matter"—he scratched at the stubble on his chin—"seeing as your stay there might be brief. There's talk of whether or not you're worth the resources to keep permanently housed there. Once the Mistrali and Atlesian courts convene and finalize your conviction, well, all those felonies make a person wonder if the punishment fits the crime. Incarceration might be too light a sentence, if you ask me." Pickerel shrugged. "I think capital punishment might've come up."

Of all the reactions Pickerel might have expected, and, if Tyrian was being honest, was probably trying to provoke from him, convulsive laughter wasn't one of them. Contrite platitudes, pleas for mercy, maybe even some manner of bargaining in exchange for his life—any of those would have fit the script. Those were perfectly reasonable reactions from any sane person.

Tyrian stopped being sane long ago.

Tears of mirth gathered in the corner of his eyes as his laughter subsided. "Oh, I wonder what it'll be." He giggled. "Hanging? Perhaps not, takes too long. Electrocution? Hm. Too draconian, though I wouldn't put it past Atlas to still condone it. Lethal injection?" His speech slowed, becoming darker. "Now _there's _something that would let them pass judgment without offending their morality. And I'm sure someone out there would appreciate the irony. After all, I'd know a thing or two about lethal injections."

His tail curled against the shackles.

Shock slowly reshaped itself into an emotion resembling subdued hate. Like the silhouette of a thing viewed through frosted glass, more impression than reality. "You know." Pickerel's hands flexed. "I often wonder how people like you sleep at night."

"On my left side, actually," Tyrian said. "It makes it harder for someone to reach the heart."

"Can't stab what you don't have."

"Such hostility!" Tyrian leaned into his binds, an unseen grin spreading across his face. "And here I thought we were finally getting to know each other."

Oh, he was good, he was very good. It didn't cease to entertain Tyrian, watching the ebb and flow of his emotions, the onset of one obliterating the last, all while Pickerel struggled to keep his composure. How long would that last? What could he do to _break it?_

With agonizing slowness, the tension bled from Pickerel's body in a long, silent exhale. "You're delusional," he said.

"Madness and genius often go hand-in-hand, befitting an artist such as myself. Tell me, as someone who's been following my work, how have you enjoyed it?"

"I wonder if they'll let Atlas' scientists dissect your brain, if they do decide to execute you."

"Like a bug pinned to a board?" His tail flexed.

The last of Pickerel's indulgence was evidently spent. The Huntsman snorted as he pushed off the wall. "I have reports to finish. If you actually need something, yell for security. You're good at that." With that said and done, he headed for the exit.

"Will you be coming with me to Atlas?" Tyrian inquired. "After all these months dancing around each other, it would be a shame if we were to part ways now and not see this through to the end."

He paused on the threshold. "Why do you ask?"

"You're from Anima, are you not? You have a Mistrali accent." Tyrian studied him. He could feel the delirious climb, the anticipation, coiling at the base of his spine. He could taste the copper again. "Have any family here? Friends?"

Pickerel glanced over his shoulder.

"It's going to be an awfully long trip." Malice dripped from his words. "Make sure you say something meaningful before you leave."

What little color Pickerel had drained from his face. In the heartbeat Tyrian had to memorize his expression, the other man's pupils dilated in undisguised fear. With considerably more haste than before, he keyed open the door to his cell.

Tyrian's laughter echoed in the room, long after Pickerel left.

* * *

His day got off to a flying start when a squad of soldiers barged into his room.

Sleeping vertically was already hard enough without the additional racket. Blearily, Tyrian cracked open an eye at the armed assembly in front of him, trying (and failing) to suppress a yawn. "I don't remember asking for a wake-up call."

One of the soldiers, whose uniform sported a decal pinned above the breast pocket, addressed the group: "Prep him for transport."

"I don't suppose we could postpone?" The muscles in his neck protested as he lifted his head, and attempted to shake the curtain of unkept hair out of his face. "I had a rather long night planning my escape. I don't think rescheduling would be too much to ask for."

Either they'd been briefed on what to expect, or his reputation preceded him. Disappointingly, none of the soldiers reacted. As two of them stepped forward and began to undo the locks anchoring his chains to the wall, a third wheeled a padded hand truck forward.

"Watch the tail." The soldier who'd spoken earlier consulted her scroll. "The medical team still hasn't manufactured an antidote. Last thing I want is for someone to get poisoned."

"Honestly, would it kill a person to learn the right terminology?" Tyrian affected a scandalized little noise. "Poison enters the body through touch, ingestion, or inhalation. _Venom_ is directly injected into the bloodstream."

It ached where the metal dug into his skin as the soldiers pulled the chains taut. A hand wrapped around the base of the telson, securing it firmly in their grasp. The unfamiliar touch upon his exoskeleton set the nerves alight.

"Won't matter what ya call it if we decide to cut it off, half-breed," one of the guards muttered.

"Ooh, _half-breed_. Like I haven't heard that one before. If you're going to be prejudiced, at least try to be creative." A palm on the center of his back firmly pushed him toward the transport. He stepped back onto the platform, unresisting as the soldiers secured his restraints to the hand truck. "Let's see, what are some of the ones I've heard? There's vermin, mongrel, collier—"

"That's enough."

"So what does that make all of you? The animal-catchers?" Tyrian erupted into a peal of laughter that caused one of his entourage to draw back a fraction. The soldier who had made the original comment averted his gaze as Tyrian leered at him. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Scorpion got your tongue?"

The squad lapsed into an uneasy silence. It wasn't quite the full-blown panic Tyrian had been aiming for, but it was an improvement, if nothing else. He could live with that.

"Let's move." At her command the soldiers flanked him, with the exception of the unlucky bastard tasked with wheeling him from behind. There was little in the way of fanfare as they traveled through empty corridors and halls, every rounded corner met with the same drab color palette and conspicuous lack of personnel. Tyrian didn't spare much thought for his surroundings until they passed through a pair of imposing, heavily-fortified doors, and he found himself outside.

The moon glowed coldly overhead, casting a silvery sheen across the rooftop and nearby Mistrali airship. Tyrian shivered beneath its light.

"Might I ask what time it is?" There was a slight _pop_ along the vertebra as Tyrian stretched as far as the restraints would allow.

The squad leader slanted him a look out of her periphery. "Zero three hundred hours."

Well, that put things in an unhelpful context.

"While there's nothing quite like a moonlit stroll," Tyrian said, "it's strange to be doing this so early. Or late. Depends on how you look at it. It's all semantics, really, though I'm sure someone must appreciate the distinction."

She said nothing.

"Oh, do I get to guess?" The hand truck rocked slightly as Tyrian gave a little bounce—well, more like an aborted hop, at any rate. It wasn't like he had a wide range of motion to work with. "Most of the population's asleep right now. Less people awake, less of a chance someone'll see me, minimal risk of mass hysteria. Of course," he mused, "the cover of darkness provides quite a few tactical advantages. Though who the advantage is meant for in this case is a bit hard to tell. I see in the dark, after all."

He tilted his head, just enough to let the overhead glow bathe his face. He could picture the light catching on his eyes and creating the distinctive eyeshine. It was convenient for the aforementioned night vision, and for the added bonus of unnerving the racially small-minded. (It didn't escape his notice, the scornful squint one of the soldiers directed at him.)

His lip curled beneath the mask.

"Cornetto!" She strode toward the gangway that had been erected alongside the airship. At the sound of his name, a man poked his head out of the starboard hatch. "How long until departure?"

The pilot tucked his helmet under his arm. "We're ready to go whenever you are, ma'am."

"Good," she said. "I want this over and done with. You heard him, gentlemen. Get Callows onboard."

"Wait!"

The small procession halted and turned to look at him.

Tyrian made a show of scanning the vicinity. "We can't leave yet. We're missing someone." He leveled a knowing look at the woman ahead of him, all innocence and concern. "Where's Pickerel?"

"None of your business."

He clucked his tongue in disapproval. "That _is_ a shame," he sighed. And then, very softly, he giggled. "Was it something I said?"

She narrowed her eyes. With a sharp hand gesture, she signaled for her subordinates to wheel him onboard. Over the roar of the airship's engine, Tyrian's voice carried, in a dissonantly amicable tone: "Do you think I'll get a window seat?"

* * *

Tyrian did not, in fact, get a window seat.

He didn't even get a seat.

In the end, his handlers had deemed it "a waste of time" to undo his individual manacles and assorted restraints, only to then have to _reconnect_ those directly to the hull of the ship. And so, they'd opted for the much simpler solution of leaving him on the hand truck, and attaching _that_ to the hull instead. Cutting out a few steps, as it were. The unconcerned attitude, coupled with the surprisingly small five-person squad overseeing his transport, left Tyrian a bit insulted, frankly. It gave him the troubling impression they either overestimated their own capabilities, or underestimated his.

He preferred to think it was the former.

It could hardly be called an improvement over his previous accommodations. At least the company was a nice change, even if their only contribution to the conversation was stony silence, with the occasional _for gods' sake,_ _shut up_ thrown in for good measure.

He'd worked with worse.

"It's all in the wrist," Tyrian was saying. He did his best to pantomime the movement around the stasis cuffs. "Once the old cuticle is ready a crack starts to form in the shell. By then it begins to dry out and expand, so it gets easier to wedge a knife underneath. The new cuticle's particularly sensitive—learned that the hard way when I nicked myself trying to prise it off. But if you can get the blade in at _just_ the right angle, it's like peeling an orange. And while it helps to speed up the actual moulting process, I'm afraid I haven't found a handy home remedy for the _itching_ as it starts to—"

"Can't we just push him off the ship, and say he died in a prison riot?" The soldier shot his CO a hopeful look. "It's not like anyone's going to care."

"No." She paused mid-type, and glanced up from her scroll. "Just ignore him."

"What's the matter? Don't tell me all these brave, strong soldiers are _squeamish_." Tyrian laughed. "If you can't handle a little anatomy lesson, perhaps you're in the wrong field. Besides," he said. "Nothing wrong with swapping beauty tips to pass the time."

The soldier reclining against a stack of crates snorted. "Do we look like bugs to you?"

"I'll have you know I'm an arachnid," he retorted, in mock affront. The chains securing his tail rattled faintly. "You ought to pay attention." His words held all the subtlety of a fireworks display, audibly _aching_ with the desire to watch something bleed. "The difference might get you killed one day."

There was a brief silence.

"You know"—the soldier taking a whetstone to their axe spoke up—"I think he has a point. We should put it to a vote. All in favor of executing the prisoner now, say 'aye.'"

"For the last time," she groused, "we are _not_ executing him. We have orders to transport Callows and _that's it_. If you wanted to kill something, you should have asked to be deployed on the assignment to hunt Grimm—"

The lights flickered as the airship shook. The squad scrambled to their feet.

"Cornetto!" She hurried toward the cockpit. "Did we hit turbulence?"

"Negative, ma'am." He sounded bewildered. "My instruments aren't picking up any changes in air pressure. It's weird, though. The ship's decelerating, almost like she's flying into a Dust vortex."

"Can you do something about it?"

"I can adjust our course and see if that fixes anything, but truth be told, I'm not keen on flying with unknowns. If the problem persists we might have to land and inspect for—"

A second tremor sent the ship lurching sideways. This time, it was accompanied by a roar.

"Grimm!" She unsheathed the scimitar at her waist. "Brace yourselves for a fight if they penetrate the hull. Cornetto, get the ship's weapon systems online and—"

"_What_ weapon systems?" Tyrian could hear the slap of a hand frantically moving across the command console. "This ship is rigged for fast transport with no heavy armaments. It doesn't even have shielding!"

The soldier with the axe staggered into the wall beside him, knocked off balance by the ship's epileptic tremors. "_Why the hell not?_" they shouted.

"Mistral Command said Grimm activity in this sector was minimal. The Atlas base denied the request for firepower because they thought we wouldn't need it!"

A black, serrated beak punctured the ceiling.

"Does that look _minimal_ to you?" one of the soldiers yelled.

The Nevermore withdrew its head before her scimitar could connect. "Then use evasive maneuvers," she spat. "We need to dislodge them before they get into—"

Whatever she'd been about to say was drowned out by the sickening screech of tearing metal. They had all of a second's warning before a large sheet was torn clean from the hull.

In hindsight, Tyrian would marvel over the serendipity of the hand truck being anchored to the wall, the only thing that stopped him from being sucked out of the aircraft cabin as it decompressed. He narrowed his eyes against the sting of debris and torrents of air rushing past him, only just able to catch sight of two soldiers plummeting into the atmosphere. The remaining three had narrowly avoided the same fate, by virtue of grabbing onto pipes winding through the wall, and in the case of one, embedding their axe into the hull.

A Griffon lofted onto the platform created by the rift.

To his surprise, the creature didn't move to strike. Coal-red eyes swept over the group as it studied them one by one. There was an alien intelligence in the recesses of its skeletal face, unsettling in its familiarity. Even as his heart beat against his ribcage, the adrenaline raced through his veins, Tyrian felt no fear.

Perhaps it was a suicidal thought to harbor, but he felt an unrequited kinship with the Grimm. What it must feel like, to be compelled by some primordial instinct to kill. Was it the same for them? The hedonistic rush that accompanied each life he took? The hunger no bloodshed could ever sate, that he never _wanted_ to be sated?

When people called him a monster, it was in recognition of what he did. When Grimm were called monsters, it was in recognition of what they _were_.

The Griffon's four eyes lit upon him. For a moment it merely stared, its jet-black feathers ruffled by the wind.

Then it lunged.

With their axe anchoring them to the wall, the soldier didn't have the ability to react as the Griffon bore down on them. The space inside the ruptured cabin was filled by a whirlwind of black, white, and red as more Grimm pushed their way inside. Any view Tyrian might've had was obstructed by the thrash of limbs. It did nothing to deafen him to the discordant song of the Grimm and their victims, whose screams had shifted from terror to pain.

So transfixed was Tyrian by the chaos, he nearly didn't notice the Nevermore approach.

It crawled toward him on clawed wingtips and came to a standstill less than a meter away. With no Aura to protect him, no ability to move, Tyrian was defenseless. He bared his teeth in a wordless snarl, daring it to attack.

The great beast reared back and unfurled wings that bristled with serrated feathers. With a spectral cry, it flung them.

The restraints on his limbs, tail, and face, and the stasis-cuffs on his wrists, shattered.

Renewed energy surged through him. Tyrian held up a hand to inspect the abraded skin on his wrists, watching as a purple sheen rippled over the appendage and spread across his body.

His Aura had returned.

_He was free_.

At some point the screaming had stopped.

Tyrian turned his attention back to the Nevermore. It had yet to move away, or make an attempt to injure him. Wariness faded to confusion as he regarded the creature. Before he could stop himself, he reached out, fingertips hovering over the wicked beak.

He was close enough to touch.

That was when a sound like magnified thunder rippled through the fuselage, and the airship split in two.

The air left Tyrian's lungs as an explosion punched him through the hull. The impact sent him spiraling away from the wreckage that had joined him in freefall. Unbidden, his eyes mapped the trajectory of his descent, seeing without comprehending as the earth grew ever closer. There was a distorted beauty to the world around him, great plumes of smoke trailing behind the debris as it fell with all the power of a meteor strike. If he hadn't been suffocating, the sight would have left him breathless.

A shadow passed above him.

It was all the warning Tyrian had before a pair of talons wrapped around his biceps. Animal instincts screamed _predator_ and _escape_ and _fight_. His tail coiled behind him, bracing in anticipation for attack. He looked up at the Nevermore, his thoughts already pushing a thousand strategies to the forefront of his mind, looking for weaknesses to exploit, advantages to leverage.

And then he saw her.

Tyrian would never forget the way she moved, silhouetted against the shattered moon while Grimm encircled her. She lifted a hand, and the flock twisted through the sky like starlings. They were poetry in motion, like black ribbons come to life, weaving around the woman as she slowly descended toward the ground.

There was a burning sensation in the corner of his eyes that caused them to blur. Tyrian blinked, and his vision cleared.

The wind caressed his face as the Nevermore banked, its wingbeats slowing as it sailed downward. Toward her, he realized. His chest seized.

With a surprising amount of gentleness, the Nevermore lowered Tyrian to his knees and retracted its claws. It let out a soft, melancholy warble before rising back into the air.

Very slowly, Tyrian lifted his head. He wasn't quick enough to compose himself, and failed to choke back a sob as he beheld her.

Long, black robes fluttered behind her in the grass. It created a mesmerizing contrast against the pallor of her skin, like freshly-fallen snow, untrodden and untainted by the decay of time. The woman studied him with eyes not unlike those of the Grimm, embers stoked with power that transcended those of the fell beasts gathered around them. A Griffon crept next to her, and she rested a palm atop its face, her gaze never once straying from his. Had he not already been on his knees, Tyrian would have fallen.

"What are you?"

The rasping voice pulled Tyrian from his trance.

Cornetto had survived the crash. The pilot managed to drag himself by the arms, out from underneath a section of the ship. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, and when he tried to crawl forward, let out a moan. It only took a moment to see why—a bone had torn through the back of his leg.

Even as he hemorrhaged, even as his strength failed him, the pilot continued to speak, each word teetering on the cusp of incoherence, dragged from his throat like shards of glass: "What are you?"

The woman inclined her head. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The first words Tyrian heard her speak were in a language he didn't recognize. It didn't matter that he couldn't comprehend them; they chimed like portentous bells, a death knell he would have understood in any tongue.

Tyrian didn't get the chance to act on the impulse before one of the Grimm intervened. A Beowolf padded toward the broken pilot. He watched, enthralled, as the Beowolf lowered its muzzle and extended its jaws around his head. A mangled noise escaped him.

"_What are you__—?_"

There was a sickening crunch. Tyrian didn't look away.

It took him a moment to feel the hot streaks trailing down his cheeks. His tail kinked behind him as he gazed upon his savior, drank in her triumphant expression with a thirst he'd never known. Tears flowed freely across his skin.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

* * *

For the curiously-inclined, I thought I'd elaborate on some of my RWBY headcanons and worldbuilding.

**Stasis-cuffs** – Also known as pneumatostatic cuffs, or Aura-breakers. A feat of Atlesian engineering, these devices artificially inhibit a captive's Aura, sapping them of combat strength and their ability to self-heal or use their Semblance (if unlocked). The handcuffs siphon energy from the captive, using the very thing they suppress to power their circuitry. These handcuffs aren't made available to the public, with usage restricted to Atlesian law enforcement, military personnel, and Class-B Huntsmen.

**_Ske sha skele_** – An idiom used by speakers of Xeric Arcadian. Literally, it translates to "a cloud brings a storm." Figuratively, it means "don't ignore the small things before they become big things that catch you unaware." In Vacuo, a single cloud, if not carefully monitored, can quickly become the precursor for torrential rainfall and flashfloods that are highly dangerous. _Skele_, originally a derivation of the plural for "clouds," is a relexicalized word with the acquired meaning "storm" (as in, a storm is made of a bunch of clouds). Tyrian is using the idiom to taunt his captors; "You should pay attention to me, before I give you something to really worry about."

**Íssvangar** – A maximum-security prison located in the desolate, frozen wastes of Solitas. Its name translates to "fields of ice" in Old Norse. Its name is a play on words that alludes to both Isengard, the fortress in _The Lord of the Rings_ where Gandalf was held captive; and Bolvangar, the facility from _His Dark Materials_ where children were detained and experimented on.

**"Collier" as an insult** – IRL a collier is a coal miner. In RWBY, a Dust miner would be the equivalent occupation. Because Dust-mining is an underregulated industry with high fatality rates, the work is often outsourced to Faunus. Over time, _collier_ and _Faunus_ became synonymous. When you call a Faunus a collier, you're basically reducing their existence to a job that's cheap, dangerous, and exploitable. You're saying that they're expendable and fit only to provide the resources other people benefit from. It's the implication that a Faunus is meant to go about unseen, toiling away in Dust mines, and when those mines collapse, die in anonymity.

**Dust vortex** – A term that describes areas with large concentrations of naturally-occurring Dust veins, that interfere with natural phenomena. Depending on the type, the effects of these vortices vary. Gravity and Wind Dust, for example, can create localized high- and low-pressure fields that generate turbulence and storm cells. Other types, like Fire and Ice Dust, can cause disparities between the vortical and ambient temperatures that result in volatile microclimates. Examples of Dust vortices include the floating islands above Lake Matsu.


End file.
